


A Beautiful Mind

by TheHatMeister (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Not Really A Happy Ending, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 11:16:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2730389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/TheHatMeister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is hospitalized after relapsing into old habits, and will only talk to John. Pre-Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Beautiful Mind

John knew it was going to be a long night when the sleek black car pulled up, nondescript but giving the impression of wealth at the same time. Stifling a sigh, he opened the back door and perched awkwardly on one of the black leather seats. To his surprise, Mycroft was in the car as well. His normally perfectly combed hair was slightly tousled, as though he’d been running his fingers through it. John’s stomach dropped; this was definitely not a good sign.  
“Is Sherlock all right?” John asked, the lines in his face creasing with worry. “Is it another problem night?” He’d been having more of those recently, lashing out at the smallest things. John had to quite literally restrain him from throwing a flask at Anderson’s head after a snippy remark the other day. John knew that addiction was a tempestuous disease, he’d seen Harry cycle through every stage, over and over again, always promising that this was the last time and she’d turn her life around. He didn’t resent her for it; she was ill, and she couldn’t control it any more than a cancer patient could control their tumors.  
Mycroft interrupted his train of thought. “I’m afraid it’s a bit worse than that,” he said solemnly. “As you are aware, my younger brother has predilections towards more... artificial sources of endorphins. However, on these ‘problem nights’ as you call them, he finds other ways of improving his disposition that are equally detrimental.”  
Suddenly a nasty idea dawned on John. The secrecy, strange cutting utensils stashed in seemingly random places, the long sleeves, even in relative heat… “Oh God,” he breathed. “You’re not talking about...” he swallowed, with difficulty. “S...self-harm?”  
“Indeed,” Mycroft confirmed, his expression sober. “Obviously we can’t take him to a hospital, the publicity would be disastrous, to say the least. I had hoped he might listen to you.”  
“He’s not at the flat? Where did you take him? Is he all right?” John’s head was spinning. How could he have missed this? He knew Sherlock was ill, but to not have seen this...He could lose him. Sherlock could be gone forever. The thought shocked him into clarity.  
“We’ve taken him to a private hospital on the edge of town,” Mycroft continued smoothly. “The staff there won’t breathe a word, but he’s barred the door and won’t let anybody in. You know he can be rather...difficult at times.”  
“Yeah,” John breathed, “How long has he-?”  
“He had ended his habits when he entered rehab, but it appears within the last two weeks he’s resumed his old ways.”  
Two weeks. Jesus, how could he have been so blind? He’d been in dark places too, everyone had, but it had never occurred to John that Sherlock, Sherlock of all people, could fall that low.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
The car pulled up to the hospital, a small, ivy-covered affair with shuttered windows. As John walked through the hallway briskly, he was certain he saw some royal family member behind a closing door, but he didn’t stop to look. Mycroft, after all, had more connections than a spider’s web. There was no telling what might happen if he talked about his experience here; most likely something very quiet and very unpleasant. Finally, he reached Sherlock’s door, and knocked crisply on the whitewashed wood.  
“Sherlock?” He cleared his throat. “It’s me, John. Can we talk?” God, it sounded so trite. Like a parent trying to talk to a teenager. Despite this, he heard a muffled “John” through the door. “Can I come in?” John asked, hopefully. Reluctantly, the door opened a slit, and after something heavy being dragged away, it opened enough for John to squeeze through.   
Sherlock dragged the bed back across the doorway, then tied the sheet over the handle so it couldn’t be turned. As he turned around, John gasped. Sherlock’s normally glossy black curls were hanging limp on his forehead, and his eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. The thin hospital pyjamas were slightly too short on his lanky frame, but managed to hang off him nonetheless. A swathe of white bandages disappeared up the sleeves on both hands, and the nails on the long, elegant fingers that had so often mesmerized John were bitten down to the quick.   
“Mycroft brought you.” It wasn’t a question; Sherlock never asked questions. His voice still carried a hoarse tone, as if he had been crying or shouting. Probably both, John thought.  
“When I heard-” John choked, unable to bring himself to say the grisly words. “When I heard what - what you were doing, I had to come.”   
Sherlock tilted his head slightly. “You cared.” There was a pondering aspect to his tone, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him.  
John shook his head in disbelief. “What-of course I cared. You’re my friend, Sherlock. Friends look out for each other. Friends tell each other things, instead of keeping pain to themselves and taking it out on their arms with a razor later!” Startled at his outburst, he suddenly went quiet. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I shouldn’t have- I shouldn’t have said that,” John said, groping for words. “It’s just-I’ve seen what this does to people. And I- I could not bear to see that happen to you.”  
Sherlock was quiet for a while. “I hoped you wouldn’t have to see me like this,” he said, his voice wavering.  
“Why?” John asked. “Because I would judge? You know about my sister, Sherlock. I’m not mad at her or anything. Why would I be angry with you?”  
“It’s not that you would be angry. A little anger is the normal reaction, it’s part of the stages of worry.”  
“Then why, Sherlock? Is it because-”  
“BECAUSE, JOHN!” Sherlock turned around, practically screaming. “ALL I HAVE IS MY MIND. IF I LOSE THAT, WHAT AM I? I’M NOTHING, DO YOU UNDERSTAND? NOTHING!” With this outburst, Sherlock seemed to deflate. He sat on the bed, hunched over. “Nothing,” he repeated despondently, as tears began to stream down his face once again.  
John stood there for a moment, his fist clenching indecisively. Sod it, he thought, it can’t hurt, and sat down on the bed next to Sherlock, wrapping his arms around him. Sherlock stiffened slightly, but as John began to gently rub his back he relaxed.   
“It’s all right Sherlock. I’m here,” John whispered as Sherlock sobbed brokenly against him. “You’re something to me. I-”  
“I know,” Sherlock whispered. “It was obvious.”  
John reddened slightly. “You knew?”  
“Yes.”  
“How long?”  
“When you forgot your cane.”  
“And do you-?”  
“Of course John, don’t be a bloody idiot.”  
John laughed, a short, amazed exhalation. Trust Sherlock to be snarky, even in a situation like this. He rested his head on Sherlock’s curls, breathing in his scent. “Think you’re alright to come back to the flat?”  
“Yeah,” Sherlock sniffed, sounding for all the world like a small child. It practically broke John’s heart.  
“Good”, he said, “let’s go home then. I’m sure Mrs. Hudson will make us a cuppa.” Wrapping the blanket around Sherlock’s thin shoulders, he helped him stand up. “Let’s go get your clothes back, shall we?”   
As John dragged the bed away from the door, he promised to himself to never let Sherlock feel alone again.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
1 month later

John’s heart was in his mouth as he saw Sherlock’s silhouette etched against the slate-grey sky. No, he thought, please no, Sherlock. Not again. I promised. Never again.   
“Goodbye, John.” I love you, unspoken but still there. “SHERLOCK!”   
The running. The body, those wonderful blue eyes now emptily reflecting the dull sky. The funeral. Looking back, John could barely remember the individual events. Only the terrible crunch as his best friend, his love, took his own life. He rolled up his sleeves, rummaging through the cabinet for his old army knife. Everybody had their dark times, after all.


End file.
